Never Enough
by Splinker
Summary: A sense of realization hits you so strongly that this change in you might even be visible to the naked eye. Love.


Disclaimer: I do not own _QAF_. Any mistakes are my own.  
Comments, good or bad, are encouraged!

_**Never Enough**_

This love is raging through you. It's flowing at such intensity that sometimes you think you can feel it. You're not even sure when it occurred to you that it was there, that it fucking _existed_ inside of you, but you now realize that it's unavoidable. You can't escape your love for him any longer. He knows it. He knows that he's gotten to you, and he fucking revels in it. You can pretend all you want, but you can tell the difference and so can he.

It's most evident at times like this, when he's sketching and you're working at your computer, and you're not even saying anything to each other. The noise his pencil makes as it scratches across the paper used to bug the shit out of you, but it doesn't anymore. You fucking miss it when he's not around, because, when you can hear it, you know that he's working. And his art makes him happy.

When he finishes a piece that he's especially proud of, he always does the same thing. He'll say, "Hey, take a look at this." He never asks you what you think of it. He doesn't have to. The only kind of art you know about is the kind on advertisements for deodorant or some shit like that, but you can tell when something's good. And his work is fucking amazing. He'll ask you to take a look at it, and you'll tell him exactly what you think, even though he doesn't ask. You've never been one to bullshit, and you don't think he'd get upset even if you told him that he's done better. But, truthfully, everything that you've ever seen of his has been fucking masterful. He'll look at you and say, "Yeah, it is good, isn't it?" Then he'll smile; pure fucking sunshine.

And then you'll kiss him with everything that you have. Because there's nothing hotter than seeing him all wound up from creating something. When he gets inspired, you can see the intensity and passion he has for his work in the way that he holds his brush or pencil or chalk or whatever the fuck he's using. It flows through him and it's evident in his eyes and the way that he won't eat or drink anything while he's working. Sometimes you wonder if he's always been like this. You see a flash of him as a child, all blonde hair and pale skin and button nose. A five-year-old that's too focused on his drawing of the playground to eat dinner. It brings a smile to your face, and you think that the image you just had is probably pretty accurate. He's always been determined.

Sometimes you don't consume anything besides coffee and guava juice when you're focused on a new campaign or a new pitch or presentation. Sometimes you'll eat a green apple, but hardly ever a full meal. Justin knows, too. He knows when to order takeout and not ask you what you want. He always orders for you anyway, though. It's wishful thinking on his part, thinking that you'll actually eat any. But, on certain days, you'll be at the computer and suddenly think, fuck, I'm hungry. On those days, you're really fucking glad that he's such a wishful thinker.

You're outright staring at him now, all thoughts of your work pushed aside in favor of his bare chest and the way the sun is filtering through the windows and making his blonde hair even fucking brighter, if that's even possible. He pretends to be oblivious to the fact that you're staring at him, but you know that he secretly loves it when you watch him and (think) he doesn't know about it. A smile has spread across your face because you keep looking at his naked torso and thinking that, after he's done with his drawing, you'll fuck him. Bend him over the back of the sofa and meld your body to his and thrust into him wildly until neither of you can stand it anymore.

He puts his pencil down for a moment to scratch at a spot on his head, and sees you staring at him. He smiles because he knows that you know he loves you watching him like that. His creativity makes him just as hot as it makes you.

"What?" He says, a hint of a smile still on his face.

"You look hot," I reply, my face completely straight now.

"Don't I always?"

"Yes, but you look especially hot right now." He really does, you think. His eyes are a little crazy, but he always gets like that when he's working.

He doesn't respond to your comment, just flashes a smile and goes back to his drawing.

You're not fully aware of when you came to be so fucking in love with him that you could waste ten minutes of your valuable time to stare at him. You just know that you first noticed it when he challenged you and put up those fucking posters. _Have some balls. _He'd always had plenty, but, with those posters, he'd used your own words against you. It was then that you realized he was no longer a boy. You had nothing else to teach him. The moment that first poster hit the wall, he was a man. Standing up not only for what he believed in, but also on behalf of all of you. All of the too-fucking-afraid queers whose lives would have been stolen had Stockwell won.

Fuck, by then, he was teaching you. Teaching you that a drawn out, slow fuck can be just as pleasing as a fast, hard one. Given you're in the mood. He'd taught you the benefits of fucking the same person regularly. Knowing every area of the other's body and knowing exactly what it takes to make him come, and exactly what it takes to drive him insane with want. Who the fuck knew that it was possible to want the same person all the fucking time? You sure as hell didn't, but you do now. The chemistry between the two of you seems to never fade. Sometimes you think it never will. Despite the fact that you won't give him what he so desperately wants, whatever it is that keeps you two so fucking entertained with each other will always be there. Long after he should have just moved on, it'll still be there. But, seeing him now, so blonde and pale and perfect, (Fuck! When did you become such a dyke?) You're not even sure that you care. Because, for however much longer this—whatever this is between the two of you—lasts, you'll fucking enjoy it.

You'll enjoy him clanging around in the kitchen looking for potatoes, even though he learned a long fucking time ago that you do not each such food. You'll enjoy rolling into his warm body on those lazy Saturday mornings that neither of you have to work. And you'll especially enjoy waking up to his incredible mouth wrapped around your dick. For as long as it lasts, you'll enjoy it.

"Hey, take a look at this." His request breaks you from your reverie, and you get up to go over to him on the sofa. He's drawn Gus, blowing a bubble, the size of it hinting that it's about to pop.

"It looks just like him." You're hand has found its way into his hair as you lean over the back of the sofa to peer down at his sketchbook. "That's really fucking good, Justin."

He looks up at you with a smile and says, "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"

You return his smile and kiss him, letting your tongue slide between his parted lips. He breaks away for a moment to set his sketchbook on the table while you move to the other side of the seat so that there's nothing between the two of you. You're sitting next to him, kissing. Long, slow kisses that seem to last forever. He moves into your lap so that he's straddling you. His hands are on either side of your face, and yours have come to rest one in his hair and the other on his back. He sighs into your mouth, and, in that instant, all you can think about is how much you fucking love him and how you are just so utterly _fucked_.

Fucked because you'll never get enough of this. Of him, his tongue roaming your mouth. His hands in your hair and unbuttoning your shirt. Never enough. But, really, you don't care. Cause he's the one bad habit you don't ever want to break.


End file.
